


The Enrapture of an Angel

by Megg33k



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M, Purgatory, top!dean, virgin!cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 16:46:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megg33k/pseuds/Megg33k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean + Cas + Purgatory = Sex</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Enrapture of an Angel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anyone Who Has Ever Struggled With NaNoWriMo](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Anyone+Who+Has+Ever+Struggled+With+NaNoWriMo).



> I'm sharing this because I feel it would be waste not to. I'll explain at the end.

When a hunter and an angel come together in the hell known as purgatory, vulnerabilities are opened up. Even Leviathan can feel the energy in the air as grace escapes when an angel cums. And the hunter screams, because he’s simply waited for so fucking long.

It starts with calloused hands on inky black wings, the soft against the hard and the whimpers and groans of lovers who are far too eager and finally have all the excuse they need. Comfort in a place of torment, a place where the worst of the worst hunt one another and fight to survive. But this… this is worth the risk. They wanted and waited and it’s time for the rewards to be paid.

The angel is undressed, touched in ways he’s only barely seen by the light of a television screen. Tongue on nipple, hand on thigh. Even the simple things can drive him mad when everything is fresh and new and foreign. So when timid fingers wrap around a virginal cock, all is almost immediately lost.

But the hunter knows too much. He recognizes the twitch of an all too eager prick. He knows the tension of rigid shoulders and the guttural moans, knows what they mean even when the body they emanate from remains clueless. So he pulls back, because it’s too soon. He can’t let it end already when it’s been years in the making. No, he could keep this going for decades. Hell taught him to torture, and what is orgasm denial if not fucking torture? Oh, but those eyes… those desperate eyes of a terrified angel. He wants to give—fear and desire at odds in his head.

“Cas,” he whispers, “trust me.”

And the answer comes, “I do.”

So the hunter closes his eyes, pictures his Impala, and lays his angel back on the hood. He drops between his thighs, spreads them wide, and licks a stripe along untouched territory. The angel whines, and the hunter smiles. He laps at an entrance yet unspoiled, untainted, and he hardens in ways unimaginable just knowing that it’s his for the taking. The point of a tongue swirls the puckered flesh, darts inside and stretches him. A body so unused, so free of human burdens, so clean and pure. His angel tastes like light and joy and the smell of rain.

The angel quivers with the unbridled energy of a shooting star, all pent up in the form of one average sized man who contains a behemoth of a being. So much power, so much want and need, and the hunter’s all too happy to provide. In fact, he’ll hold out for as long as his body will allow. Because this is too good and too much and too perfect to let slip by. He’s lost everyone and everything he’s ever held dear, but his angel… he won’t lose his angel too. He can’t. He was promised before birth he had angels watching over him, and this was that angel—the one who had protected and provided, served and saved. He won’t let him down with so much still to repay.

And when his angel begs for more, he gives as he was asked. He strokes himself and then presses inside. The heat of a supernova, the grip of a collapsing star. It surrounds him and confounds him. Something he’s never wanted and what he’s always needed, one and the very fucking same. How can something feel so amazing in such a deplorable place? How can he find salvation in the wasteland of the not quite after life? It’s more than he can take, and it takes more than he has to give… yet he gives, because his angel wants. His angel pleads and goddamn near prays. How do you say no when an angel of the Lord makes you feel like a fucking god on earth… or not quite earth… somewhere in the twain that suddenly feels a lot like Heaven.

As his angel quakes, he holds on for dear life. An angel’s climax is… well… he doesn’t even begin to know what to expect or what he might feel. He hopes only to survive. Yet he’s more than willing to risk life and limb to make his angel cry, cry his name as he trembles and cums.

The enrapture of an angel: is there anything more perfect in the universe? Streams of pearlescent white streak their stomachs, glowing and burning hot. The tightening of muscles around an aching prick is nearly more than he can bear. But hearing his name on the lips of an angel, hearing that syllable, “Dean,” said like a fucking wish, maybe a prayer… that is the end of him.

And three letters won’t do, not when there are seven at his disposal. He calls back with, “Castiel,” and fills his angel with the embodiment of his love. He expresses it the only way he knows how, because words often fail where actions do not. He grips and holds and bucks and rides out his orgasm, vision blown black and stars in his eyes.  The cosmos explodes before him, and— _goddamn_ –it feels good.

Everything may change when they escape—if they escape… if they even live—but their time together will live in infamy, and no creature great or small can ever take from them what they shared in that moment.

**Author's Note:**

> I participated in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) this November as a rebel and an ML. Though a lot of what I wrote wasn't a novel, I aimed to write 50,000 words between Nov 1 and Nov 30. At around 9:30pm on Nov 29, I was just under 1200 words short of my 50k goal. So, started writing whatever came to mind.
> 
> In the last 15 minutes, this was what I wrote. I totally forgot I'd written it, and the only things I changed before posting were spelling/grammar errors. If it's awful, it's probably because I wrote it in a quarter of an hour when I was tired and just trying to get to my goal. If it's not awful, I'm pretty happy about it.
> 
> For someone who almost exclusively writes for the Sherlock fandom, it's odd that I went into Destiel in my sort of stream of consciousness. It's even stranger that I wrote a scene from beginning to end that was actually somewhat coherent. Who knows how my brain works? *shrugs*
> 
> Okay... anyway... I hope you enjoyed it. Feel free to tell me what you thought.


End file.
